


Everything You Ever Wanted

by Space_Daemon



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Spirit!Argo, Spirit!Firbolg, argo and the firbolg are spirits, fitzroy makes bad decisions: the fanfic, jackle and althea are also spirits, me: but what if they were super powerful spirits tho, not tagged bc its not about that, ooh so much angst, soft maplekeene, taz g: firbolg and genasi are basically people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Daemon/pseuds/Space_Daemon
Summary: "The day he met the Firbolg; Fitzroy thought he was going to die."Fitzroy Maplecourt gets everything he wants, just once. It doesn't go well.Fairy Tale AU where Fitzroy, friend to spirits Argo and the Firbolg, makes a deal with Chaos to become a knight.
Relationships: Argo Keene & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Master Firbolg & Argo Keene, Master Firbolg & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

The day Fitzroy left was the same as any other.

Well, it was not, so he would not say it was, but it certainly began as such.

The Firbolg rose slowly from the bed of moss where he slept, furry hide completely disguised by the soft ground. He gave a roar and the forest replied in a thousand voices. Birds, insects, animals, plants, all were well.

He passed between trees, nearly invisible despite his girth, speaking softly to each trunk he met. One paw brushed their bark, learning hundreds of years of memories in less than a second. No rot, no invasive creepers, nothing that needed dealing with.

The saplings, growing together in a clearing left by a fallen oak, spoke to him, fighting to speak loudest. Each clamouring for his attention, desperate to be most beloved to the Firbolg. They would keep fighting as they grew, muscle in on each other’s space and eventually form a hierarchy, but for now he let them bicker. There was time enough.

As he passed through the forest, birds chirped, buds flowered, leaves opened, grass and mushrooms sprouted in his footprints. The forest grew for its Firbolg. He came to the river last, the forest tended to. Here, a tree had grown on both its sides, so narrow it was, so he followed its path until it widened.

A good spot found, the Firbolg waded in, water rushing about his waist.

“Hello.”

No response came, but this did not worry the Firbolg.

He had all the time in the world.

His fur was sodden by the time it began. The current slowed, nearly standing still before it began to flow backwards. It moved faster, splitting against the Firbolg, rooted to the riverbed. Soon, it smelt of salt, and the Firbolg smiled.

The downstream flow returned, smashed into the returning water. They splashed together into a wave taller than the Firbolg, freezing right at its peak.

A figure formed from the wave, stood astride the river. Long limbs supported a slender figure, seafoam curling into ringlets that cascaded from its head. Features sharpened, sharp grin and sparkling blue eyes forming a familiar face. Clothing resolved from liquid, forming into solid shapes.

Chains hung from wrists, shoulders, head and neck, gold and silver and jewels. Bangles and rings covered ankles, wrists, fingers, pointed ears pierced with half a dozen earrings each. Gold and silver wrapped around foamy curls, his braid thick with clasps, thread, and beads.

Argonaut grinned, stepping into the river.

“My friend,” he sang, voice of salt and waves crashing on sand. “Hello.”

The Firbolg nodded once.

“My friend,” he affirmed, voice slow as the trees and deep as their roots.

Neither one of them came naturally to this tongue, but they would not speak another. This one Fitzroy had taught them.

“He is probably waiting for us!”

“Then we go.”

Together they headed for the forest border which backed onto the Maplecourt farm. Argonaut skipped ahead and sang of his time at sea, protecting sailors and searching the sea floor. The Firbolg said little, but occasionally nodded, which was plenty.

Fitzroy did not run into the forest at their approach, nor could they hear his idle whistling. In fact, they could not see him anywhere.

“Maybe he is late as well,” Argonaut offered, sunrise over the sea in his song. “Then he won’t even notice that we were!”

The Firbolg nodded, sat down to wait. Argonaut did the same, starting to polish his jewellery.

By the time every piece was sparkling, Fitzroy still had not arrived.

Nor had he by nightfall.

Three days later, the Firbolg turned to Argonaut.

“He is... late.”


	2. Speak to the Spirits

The day he met the Firbolg; Fitzroy thought he was going to die.

A young boy, not interested in learning to plough a field, he had snuck away from the farm, slipping over the back fence into the forest.

Dad said the forest was haunted, that if he went in, he might lose his mind. Mom said he would trip and hurt himself. Then she hit Dad’s arm.

He remained cautious, though, clambering over roots carefully. Soon, the farm had entirely vanished through the trees.

Fitzroy walked deliberately through the forest, pausing every so often to examine the place. For some reason, he had expected more dead leaves underfoot and less moss and grass. Light shone down through the canopy, green and gold washing the forest floor. Flowers and fruit grew abundant. The whole place felt unreal in its beauty.

He did not see the spirit at first, focused as he was on his feet. The uneven ground valleyed on a steeper slope than he would like. Consequently, his attention was kept on maintaining his upright status.

He noticed the spirit when he looked up at the clearing and fell anyway.

At least ten feet tall, the creature looked like a mountain come to life. Mossy fur grew thick across the stone skin of its back and limbs. Despite its size, he could not hear it move and saw no impressions from its movement. Large, dark eyes did not focus on him but a patch of mushrooms growing nearby.

A smile of blunt white teeth split its face in half as it knelt to examine the fungi.

Fitzroy tried (and failed) not to be a little annoyed that it had apparently not noticed him yet. Not that he wanted to be… _eaten?_ Probably eaten by a spirit, but he had thought his outfit particularly dashing this morning and felt a little miffed it had drawn no attention.

Fitzroy had some problems with impulse control. He also had a big sore spot when it came to being ignored, so instead of fleeing and learning his lesson, he did something thoroughly stupid.

He coughed loudly.

The spirit looked up, eyes burning, arms outstretched. Before Fitzroy could even attempt to flee, the forest turned on him.

Trees closed ranks, shutting off all escape. Eyes watched him from the shadows, silent jurors judging in the dark. The ground beneath him started to undulate, carrying him forward like a leaf pulled into a river until he was at the spirit’s feet.

It had already been twice Fitzroy’s height, but at this angle it took up the whole sky. Blunt teeth sharpened and claws, thicker than Fitzroy’s wrists, shot out. Leaves bristled on its hide as it took him in.

Fitzroy shrieked, flinching into a ball.

“I’m sorry!”

As suddenly as it had happened, the hostility disappeared from the forest and the clearing returned to normality.

The creature still loomed over Fitzroy, but the fire in its eyes had died down. Claws retracted and its snarl vanished. Small cliffs on its face shifted into a frown.

_**“Ka?”** _

“I beg your pardon?”

The creature examined him carefully, then knelt to his eye level. Kindly, it spoke.

The Firbolg spoke the language of the forest, Fitzroy later learned. The flora and fauna and fungi and Firbolg shared one voice, one tongue. But only here. Every forest had a Firbolg, but they could not speak to each other. They had no shared language, their appearances varied drastically based on their forests, and the Firbolg had not seen another of his kind in ages.

(Based on the life the Firbolg had lived, the age of the forest, Fitzroy assumed he meant literal _ages_.)

Fitzroy could not understand it, had no way to make the words even if he could learn. But the Firbolg caught on quick and soon, Fitzroy was playing charades with a forest spirit.

After some impressive miming on Fitzroy’s part (if he did say so himself), the Firbolg seemed to understand he had gotten lost, nodding and picking up the boy with one arm. With the other, he parted the forest like curtains and strode forward.

Carried like a baby in the arms of a guardian spirit was the only way to travel, Fitzroy decided. Animals examined him with interest and plants curled to brush his face, soft petals wiping away the frightened tears from his cheeks. Despite his rocky exterior, the Firbolg’s gentle arms lulled Fitzroy to sleep like a child in a hammock.

Finally, the Firbolg deposited him gently on the fence overlooking Maplecourt Farm. He nodded softly at the boy and melted back into the trees.

Fitzroy returned to the farm after supper, having missed a whole day’s work. His mother sighed, took out a plate she had kept warm, and let him sit on the kitchen table to eat it.

“You had us worried sick, darling,” she chided. “Don’t disappear without warning again.”

Fitzroy nodded solemnly, pausing between bites.

“Okay, mom. I’ll warn you next time.”

The day Fitzroy met Argonaut Keene; he was running away.

The Firbolg spoke passable Common now, and Fitzroy met him weekly in the forest. Somehow, nobody had noticed the pattern over the last six years, and Fitzroy revelled in having a secret spirit for a best friend.

By now, the forest recognised him as its own. He trusted he would never come to harm within its borders. But outside, it could do nothing to protect him.

Seventeen was old on a farm, where making it through winter depended on all able hands pitching in. Spending any time at all daydreaming, sword-fighting, or sneaking off into the forest to meet an ancient spirit seemed simply irresponsible.

Things came to a head when his father sat him down in the kitchen.

“You’ve got to start pulling your weight, my boy.”

“What do you mean?” Fitzroy demanded. “I pull twice as much weight as the rest of you!”

“I don’t mean literally, lad. I mean, you need to get invested in the farm. You’re a Maplecourt, thick or thin, and it’s about time you started acting like it.”

Fitzroy scowled. His father sighed, running a hand through rapidly greying hair.

“Son, I love you. I understand this ain’t your dream. But we need you to help us until you figure out what _is_ , because we can’t support you forever if you ain’t going to do your bit.”

Fitzroy felt the sting in his throat, behind his eyes, and bit his lip.

“I know what my dream is, Dad. I want to be a knight.”

His father turned away, staring into the fields as if something he had lost a long time ago grew there among the wheat.

“I don’t know about that, lad. They don’t want folk like us.”

Despite the heat in his face, Fitzroy’s voice stayed steady as he said, “Then I’ll _make_ them want me.”

He stormed out, slamming his bedroom door behind him, hot tears wetting his face.

Suddenly, Fitzroy was seized with the urge to do something very stupid. Again, he took it.

That impulsive decision had brought him to the docks. If people saw Fitzroy and thought him a naïve farm boy, that did not matter. When he returned, he would be a knight worthy of any king or lord.

Finding passage on a vessel bound for adventure proved harder than he thought, especially since he had somehow ended up in the cargo district. Nobody here wanted passengers, especially not teenage boys trying to prove their worth.

After his fifth failed attempt, throat and eyes stinging once more, he ducked out of sight under an empty dock. Curled up on a rock, sea lapping at his feet, Fitzroy began to cry.

He cried the silent sobs of the truly desperate, not seeking attention or comfort, simply overwhelmed by fear and misery. Saltwater soaked into his boots, a present for his birthday last year. Probably ruined forever now.

Waves pulled closer to him, dousing his travelling cloak. Letting out a little gasp, tears blurred his vision as he hugged his knees.

When he felt the hand on his arm, he shrieked. Jumping back nearly landed him in the water before an arm caught him.

The figure – made entirely of water, barely an idea of a person – lifted him back onto the rock, cocked the water that made up its head, and floated a few feet away.

When it formed into a person, Fitzroy nearly screamed again. The man – or boy, because really, he looked no older than Fitzroy – smiled, revealing sharp teeth. His ponytail (but it was all water, how could you make water do that?) crested tiny waves down his back. He had a moustache, Fitzroy realised blankly, seafoam curling and twisting more elaborately than hair ever could.

Jewellery covered every available inch of arm, neck, head, even torso. His outfit, a shirt and trousers Fitzroy considered very piratical, was soaked through and apparently degraded with age. Beyond that, he seemed familiar. 

His ears had the same blunt points as Fitzroy’s, his build similarly muscular. If Fitzroy were to guess his age, he would put it within months of his own. Despite his liquid complexion, he had the features of the region Fitzroy grew up in his whole life, and it felt bizarre. Of course, his body was still comprised entirely of water, and his features were decidedly… fishier. Familiar, but not too familiar.

“Hello?” Fitzroy asked, trying not to edge away too obviously.

“Hello!” The echo came back like a tide rising to meet the shore, crashing against Fitzroy’s mind. He could not quite tell how the sounds the stranger made composed the word, but he knew what he heard.

“Who are you?”

“Who are _you_?”

A nasty thought struck Fitzroy. “Can you speak Common?”

“Can… speak,” the stranger said, frowning slightly. “Hello!”

“Ah. I see. My name is Fitzroy.”

“My name is…” he trailed off, looking inquisitively at Fitzroy. “My name?”

“Can you tell me in your language?” Fitzroy paused. “Do you have a language? Or do you just… copy?”

“I… have a language. I can speak…” he frowned, then lit up. “I can speak _who_ you speak!”

Fitzroy considered this, then burst out, “You mean _what_! You can say _what_ I say. And you understand it?”

“I understand.”

“So, you have a name in your language? Yes, no, um, maybe? I’m just trying to give you words, here, buddy.”

The stranger paused, then said, “Yes, I have a name. I’m trying to give you my name. Just, maybe… no understand it. No say it.”

“I won’t be able to pronounce it.”

He grinned, face glowing. “You won’t be able to pronounce it!” Fitzroy laughed.

“You’re keen, huh, buddy? Guess it gets lonely in the… sea?”

“Sea,” he nodded, sinking under the water until only his eyes were visible. Somehow, it had no effect on his voice. “I gets lonely, Fitzroy. Um, I copy. So I won’t be lonely.”

“Dang.”

They sat in silence for a while before the stranger said, “I’m keen?”

“Yeah,” Fitzroy agreed. “Y’know, eager. To talk to me.” The stranger nodded, looking out to the horizon.

“You are lonely. So, I’m keen.” Fitzroy had nothing to say to that, so said nothing at all.

He went back home. His new friend explained, in the best Common he could, that home was too important to leave behind, and Fitzroy found himself unable to deny the honest grief behind those eyes.

He returned the next week, armed with a book of names borrowed from the library. The Firbolg resolutely refused to accept a name, so Fitzroy was excited for the opportunity to give one to his new friend. He read the names aloud for hours, conversation improving as his vocabulary increased.

“Are you sure you aren’t interested in Leopold?” he asked. “It’s distinguished.”

“I’m not interested. It sounds… _old_.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Old? No. I’m only…” he frowned. “What is not a lot?”

“Ten?”

“More.”

“Thirty?”

“Better. I’m not old, not for a spirit.”

“Definitely not! I know a spirit, and he’s so old he doesn’t even have numbers to count it. Maybe that’s why you’re so keen.”

“Is Keen a name?”

Fitzroy considered. “I mean, _anything_ can be a name. Sounds a bit more like a surname to me. Y’know, Mr. Keen?”

His friend nodded. “Yes.”

By the time they settled on Argonaut, the sun had nearly set, and Fitzroy had to rush to catch the last carriage home.

When Argo learned how to appear in the forest, the occasional visit became every week, to both him and the Firbolg. Fitzroy grew up, learned to dream softer and manage his expectations.

Until Chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay ! first proper chapter !  
> i know that firbolg and genasi in taz are just different-shaped people with special abilities, but i'm really enamoured with the idea of them being really alien and super powerful, so i thought i'd write it up ! the actual plot has barely begun, but i thought this gave some context (also i love argo and everything i do is for him). hope you liked !


	3. Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt

The day Fitzroy met Chaos, he thought he was dreaming.

Argo and the Firbolg had stayed late that night, insisting Fitzroy explain the concept of money to them, and it took even longer than Fitzroy expected.

“Why not simply give to those who need?” the Firbolg demanded, distress rumbling like an encroaching avalanche down his throat. “Why have such excess?” He tipped forwards and buried his face in the earth.

Leaving his friend to his despair, Fitzroy turned to Argo.

“Argo, surely you understand. You’re wearing a small fortune in jewellery.”

Argo looked down at himself in horror. _“I am?”_

Fitzroy pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.

“Argo, you’re wearing several pounds of gold and silver, not to mention all those precious stones. That’s probably more wealth than the kingdom has altogether.”

Argo frowned, clutching his glittering braid defensively. “I didn’t know,” he sang in a voice like a solitary ship under darkening clouds, “I just found them in the ocean. They’re pretty.”

Having managed to upset both his friends, Fitzroy gave up on any attempt to justify the system and instead comforted them for the next fifteen minutes. It took a lot of patting, kind words, and some shiny stones he had picked up in the fields – one of few things the pair agreed upon the value of.

Finally, Argo blinked his tears (a confusing concept to a creature made of water) away, smiling softly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Fitzroy promised, patting Argo’s arm softly, “That you can make _much_ better use of your jewellery than the people who used to own it.”

“Good,” Argo sang, puffing up and beginning to rearrange his chains.

“I still do not trust this… ‘cap-eat-Alice-um’,” the Firbolg grumbled, stone countenance wrinkling like tectonic plates.

“I’m not sure I do either, bud,” Fitzroy reassured him. “But it’s how we do things.”

The Firbolg’s frown resembled a mountain range with eyes, but he allowed Fitzroy to leave without any more questions. Argo, water and metal glittering like a star in the moonlight, chirped goodbye before melting into the river.

When he finally arrived home, Fitzroy barely had the energy to drag himself to bed before falling fast asleep.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Fitzroy found himself kneeling in a throne room, lavishly decorated and warmly lit. At his side, beneath a fine silk cloak, hung a sparkling sword. His armour shone in the candlelight, engravings cutting bold shadows into the metal.

As he stood, his eyes flicked to the throne. Rarely did he find anybody there, but he could not help but look to his liege. Sometimes there sat his father or the Firbolg, once the rich uncle whose estate he visited as a small child. But today, an entirely unfamiliar figure sat in the gilded seat.

Pearlescent skin shone in the candlelight, pale hair and paler eyes unnaturally white in the orange glow. The being was far taller than him, the throne barely containing their outstretched limbs, one leg thrown casually over the other. Their outfit put Fitzroy’s to shame, thick layers of soft fabric draped over their seat. A silver circlet glittered on their head, simple enough but symbolic of power, nonetheless.

“Hello, Fitzroy.”

Uneasiness came to him like heat to a frog in a pot of water. Something about their appearance was too real, too much for the warm haze that accompanied the rest of the dream. He had never dreamed up a stranger before, especially not one to whom he was indebted. They unsettled him.

“No thanks,” he said, taking out the sword and practising his form as usual.

“What do you mean?” They smiled with teeth and lips and nothing else.

“I’m too busy to interpret whatever this means about my subconscious. Go away.”

The being blinked, and their smile stretched further to the sides without changing the rest of their face.

“As you demand. But we will discuss this again, Fitzroy.”

As they walked out, Fitzroy sat up in bed, groaning as he saw the dark sky from the window.

“Ugh, stupid dream!” He turned over and went back to sleep.

But that was not the end of matters.

Every night for the next month, Fitzroy found himself in the throne room. Certain details changed – the colour of his cloak, the hangings on the wall, the position in which he found the being. But each time, they looked at him with an ingenuine grin and said,

“Hello, Fitzroy.”

After thirty-three days, Fitzroy finally groaned, threw the sword down, and marched up to the being.

“ _What_ do you _want?_ ”

The stranger smiled, and Fitzroy nearly gave up at the wrongness of it. It looked like they had never smiled without someone to observe them and it made his skin crawl.

“I want to give you everything you ever wanted.”

Fitzroy raised a sceptical eyebrow, retrieving the sword (because figment of his imagination or otherwise, the cold steel comforted him) dropping into a chair at the long table in the centre of the room.

“That’s a pretty tall order, bud. I wanted a tail for like six months before I realised I’d have to cut holes in all my pants. You gonna give me that?”

The being sighed deeply, leaning even further back over one arm of the throne, longs legs thrown out across the other.

“I meant your ambition. Your deepest wishes. Not any fleeting childhood fancy.”

“Well, then you shoulda said that! You’re really burying the lead here.”

They looked at him briefly, then slid out of the chair and walked up to him.

“Fitzroy,” they said deliberately, “I can make you a knight. I can give you magic and riches and have the whole world speak of your deeds. Do you want that?”

Fitzroy considered. Some might say it was all he wanted, himself included. But that did not mean it was going to happen. He levelled a look at the being, who had at least given up on the fake smile.

“And what do you want in return?”

They laughed mirthlessly, like they had something in their throat. “Nothing much. Just a favour.”

He frowned, cocking his head.

“That’s a super sketchy thing to say, bud. Super sketchy. Like, you basically just gave me a sketchbook with that sentence.” The being shrugged.

“I’m not asking much, Fitzroy. The question is, are you willing to give up the chance to live your dream?”

He hummed, tapped his chin with the hilt of the sword.

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to decline.”

“What?”

“No thanks.”

The being scowled, and this expression did not seem forced whatsoever. They stormed to the other side of the room, then turned to look at - or rather, through - him.

“ _Fine,_ " they spat, "I’ll give you time to consider. But you should consider it, and carefully.”

Fitzroy shrugged.

“If you can handle the rejection, that’s fine. I’ll see you, I guess.” He felt the dream begin to slip away, sound from the waking world seeping in at the edges.

“Hey,” he remembered suddenly, “what’s your name?”

The being smiled as his vision blurred.

“You can call me Chaos.”

The dreams did not end upon Fitzroy’s refusal, but they did become less frequent. Whole weeks went by without a single night spent in that throne room, though he always returned eventually.

Fitzroy found this somehow even more annoying, because being surprised by a meeting with Chaos left him much more on edge than knowing he would arrive there whatever he tried. He considered asking Argo or the Firbolg for their advice, but the pair of them struggled to understand his ambition in the first place. They would both just tell him to refuse, and he did not want to examine why that conversation was a bad option.

Instead, the diary he had hoped to one day publish as the first of his memoirs (something about humble beginnings and early signs of greatness) became his strategy book. He documented meetings, sketched Chaos, and wrote out the pros and cons of the deal about a hundred times.

Nothing helped. Nothing took away the gnawing feeling in his gut that saying yes would be the right choice. He knew enough about deals with mysterious entities to understand this feeling was likely incorrect but could not help but fall into daydreams.

He knew that, theoretically, if he worked hard enough, he could become a knight. The demand for strong, quick-thinking, loyal young people never ceased, and he had those traits in spades. If his family allowed him, he could do that himself.

But fame, magic? Those were not so easily attained and hence, not so easily refused. While magicians worked throughout Nua, Fitzroy had never met one in person. They were rare enough, and although it might be possible to learn by himself, the texts, training, and time required basically made it impossible.

Fame hit his soft spot, though. Nothing caused him such deep shame as his fervent desire to be famous.

It meant nothing; he knew that well enough. None of his idols from childhood still worked today - retired, dead, or simply disappeared from the spotlight. As much as he adored the great heroes, he knew their fifteen minutes of fame had been hard-earned and fleeting.

Despite this, Fitzroy could not help himself. He wanted it. Chaos could give it to him for only a favour, and it haunted him for months, years.

Even two years later, his waking hours hummed with the offer. It was foolish, the kind of foolish people write stories about. Fitzroy could already hear the cautionary tale of the boy with so much hubris he marched into the jaws of the wolf with both eyes open.

Still, he thought of it.

Argo and the Firbolg had not noticed, or if they had, were unwilling to comment on their friend’s obsession. He still met them regularly, though, and considered them his best friends.

The Firbolg had comforted him through his toughest days when all felt lost. He remained a singular constant, by his side since childhood.

Argo grew alongside him, changing day by day, but always ready for anything. Argo had adventures Fitzroy could only dream of and re-enacted them in detail whenever asked.

Fitzroy loved them both but refused to admit his trouble. Refused to accept that Chaos’ temptation was working.

He returned from the fields, sweat gilding his face, hair flopping in front of his eyes. Summer made manual labour a hundred times worse and Fitzroy walked precariously, as if his feet might slip out from under him.

Inside, he made for his room in order to change, but paused in the hall.

On the kitchen table sat a letter, face down. The seal, nearly too large for the paper it sat on, was familiar. He had seen it on documentation for merchant vessels Argo found in shipwrecks, on the flag of their nation. His mouth turned dry as he turned it over.

_Mr. Jerry Maplecourt, Maplecourt Farms_

His father had received a royal missive. His father, who railed about unfair taxes and class division and how little the royals seemed to care, had received a royal missive. A royal missive personally addressed to him.

Fitzroy did not even have to open the letter to know it was a betrayal.

He felt the familiar push to do something incredibly stupid. As always, he took it.

_**“Chaos!”** _

In the kitchen where he ate breakfast every day, learned to strip hot mint from its branches as a child, spoke his first words, Chaos seemed even more out of place. Their hyperreality extended, apparently, to the waking world. Too real even for this bedrock of Fitzroy’s upbringing where they now somehow stood at full height.

They smiled, and it made him want to run away. He stayed.

“Yes, Fitzroy?”

“Let’s do it.”

Chaos grinned with too many teeth.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I make the Maplecourts hot mint farmers ? yes, yes I did  
> I kept chaos entirely identical to their show description (besides the crown) because I kinda see that as their ideal self, as in, who they want to appear as no matter what. If you had ultimate power to look however you wanted, you’d probably be nine feet tall w/ shiny skin as well  
> Also, I have a ko-fi now! If you loved this fic and want to give it the kind of kudos that buys taz graphic novels, visit  
> [ko-fi.com/spacedaemon](https://ko-fi.com/spacedaemon)


	4. Split Up and Look For Clues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild cw for this chapter: anxiety/abandonment  
> but on the plus side, way more hand-holding than anticipated, so :)  
> also, peep the chapter count ! I'm confident how many chapters this baby's gonna be, yay !

Argo sat up, frowning at the Firbolg. They had been waiting together for days now, and much as impatience lapped at his mind, he echoed the Firbolg’s outer stillness, glancing expectantly out of the trees every few minutes.

“He is… late.” Argo nodded.

“Perhaps he forgot?”

“He has never forgotten before.”

“Maybe he went on a trip.” Fitzroy occasionally accompanied his parents on market days or taking great wagons of hot mint, dried under the sun, to the port to be sold overseas.

Argo once followed a shipment all the way to its destination – a small island full of gum trees and gnomish children who watched him from the shore. He got distracted performing tricks for them, shoots of water arcing in impossible patterns in the sky. Shoals of fish encircled him, flashing iridescent in the baking sunlight, and as the children giggled and applauded and bounced on waterspouts, he entirely forgot why he had come.

“He would not leave without notice,” the Firbolg rumbled.

Argo stopped, ice blooming across his chest.

“Do you think something happened to him?” The Firbolg looked him in the eyes, unblinking.

“I think that is likely.”

The ice spread, freezing his whole torso and stretching towards his limbs. Before he could solidify entirely, the Firbolg put one paw on his arm. Above them, the canopy parted, letting sunlight stream through, and a mossy embankment rose beneath him until he lay on a small hill, the Firbolg crouching beside him.

“Ar-go-naut.” He said each syllable as a new word. “We will find him. Fitzroy is... competent, as are you. _Relax_.”

Argo melted – quite literally – into the hill, soaking into the ground before returning to his humanoid form. Having been wrung through the earth, he took a steadying breath. Not that he needed to, but Fitzroy used it to calm his panics and reaching for memories of his friend helped him now.

Curling his hand into the Firbolg’s paw, he nodded firmly.

“We will find him,” Argo echoed. He inhaled, salt and earth heavy in the air. “Let us go.”

Together, they approached the farmhouse, keeping in the shadows behind the house. Fitzroy’s family had gone to work in the fields; some of the Firbolg’s eyes watched them leave this morning. Argo wondered why they were not concerned for Fitzroy.

The pair moved slow and cautious, heading for a side entrance rarely used by the family. Argo turned to the Firbolg and hummed,

“I will check inside.”

The Firbolg nodded, settling into the ground so he appeared as nothing more than a bump in the grass. Spirits were often better unseen when it came to mortals.

Argo slipped back into liquid form, twisting through the keyhole and pouring onto the kitchen floor. He cascaded over the tiles, consciousness spreading through the room and into the house.

Content the house was indeed empty, Argo formed a new figure, slender and tall. Waterspouts spiralled down his back, heavy with gold and silver. He disrupted his face with a hand and let it form at random, not even glancing in the mirror in the hallway as he passed.

The largest door on the ground floor swung open and the Firbolg thudded inside, head scraping the ceiling even as he bent over. Argo closed the door behind them.

“What now?”

“We should check his bedroom. Maybe he left a note.”

Despite their best efforts, the Firbolg could barely place one paw on the stairs before they started complaining. He brushed Argo off and rambled away to search the ground floor.

Argo slipped upstairs, trying to remember which room belonged to Fitzroy. His first attempt found him in a small study, thick ledgers piled on a shelf. A quick read showed they were sales logs, which Argo had little interest in. An immense book on the desk held records of each overseas shipment and might have held his interest but for the shard of ice reforming in his chest.

Breathing deep, Argo tried another door.

Fitzroy’s bedroom could barely have held the Firbolg – even Argo found himself slouching to enter through the tiny door.

The wardrobe held nothing but Fitzroy’s clothes. Argo had a secret fascination with the fripperies of mortal dress and allowed himself a minute of flipping through sweaters, overcoats, boots and undershirts. Remembering Fitzroy explaining each piece’s function helped him thaw a little, and he returned to his work.

Nothing on the desk. Nothing in the bedside table. Nothing behind the motivational poster of a knight dangling from a cliff, saying ‘Hang in There!”

Despairing, Argo checked under the bed. Nothing.

Then, he noticed something tucked in the slats.

The mattress landed in one corner of the room with a thump as Argo retrieved the object – a journal.

He gushed downstairs to the Firbolg, who caught him before he could smash into anything.

“I found something!” His friend nodded, holding up a letter with an elaborate seal.

“Read them.”

The Firbolg, while amicable to learning language, staunchly refused to even attempt reading. Argo had a feeling it had something to do with the number of dead trees involved.

He opened the journal first, flicking through entries from years ago. Each one he recognised as Fitzroy’s florid handwriting, though it had certainly improved since the beginning. He read aloud the entry where Fitzroy described meeting the Firbolg, mimicking the half-elf’s accent.

“’I quite thought I was going to die; I don’t mind telling you. But the creature showed me such kindness. It helped me out of the forest, and I think I will look for it again. I should say thank you. Mom made pancakes for dinner.’”

The Firbolg stared at the ground, leaves budding across his shoulders. His face cracked into a smile.

“That was… a good day.”

Argo skipped the entry regarding him, frost blooming over his fingertips.

When Fitzroy described his dream, the ice shot through his legs. He began to read aloud the detailed description of the being in the throne room, voice wavering as he read the exchange about a deal.

From there, the journal devolved into notes and lists, endless tables of scribbled points. He showed the Firbolg the sketches of ‘Chaos’. Once they had finished, a layer of ice had formed across his whole body like a pond in the first frost of winter.

The Firbolg took an exaggerated breath, staring him down. If he had touched him, Argo might have shattered.

“This…” his friend wavered, then continued, “this is… Fitzroy would not wish you to worry. _I_ … do not wish you… to worry. Argonaut.” He knelt to meet Argo’s eyes. “Feel the ocean within you.”

Argo closed his eyes, felt the thrum of the water wash over from him, miles from the coast though they were. The depths of the sea were his depths, its storms his storms, its shores his shores. He felt its expanse and inhaled, salt on his breath.

He took the Firbolg’s paw.

“Thank you, my friend.” He opened the letter, its seal already broken.

“'Dear Mr Maplecourt,

“'Royal taxes on non-essential food products will be increasing by 7% at the end of next month. This tax will be implemented domestically on purchase, not to producers. However, all international exports will have additional export taxes of 2% in order to account for lost domestic taxes.

“'This payment will be required directly from producers of non-essential food products. You have been identified as a significant producer of such goods, and as such, we have written to you personally in order to forewarn you of this fact. If you wish to increase your prices in anticipation of this increased tax, it will be publicly announced in three weeks’ time.

“'Sincerely,

“'Crown Prince Higglemas Wiggenstaff, Treasury Secretary.'”

Argo frowned, handing the letter back to the Firbolg.

“It’s gibberish.”

The Firbolg nodded solemnly, throwing the letter over his shoulder.

“Gibberish! It will not find Fitzroy.”

Argo returned to the journal, examining ‘Chaos’ carefully. Fitzroy’s sketches gave more an impression than an image, not particularly helpful to identify them. When he looked at them, he felt… magnitude. Large, imposing, powerful. Despite their description putting them shorter than the Firbolg, Fitzroy had drawn the figure towering over him, circlet drawn over several times, leaving impressions in the pages below.

Argo felt heat bubbling within him as he reread Fitzroy’s account of the being haunting his dreams, hounding him for agreement. The Firbolg lifted him up, carried him out of the house, and deposited him in the forest. Argo barely noticed, still reading the journal.

“Ar-go-naut.” Argo took a deep breath and closed the book.

“What do we do?”

“Call Althea.”

She responded within seconds, a beam of light illuminating the forest floor she floated over. Her robes had not changed since they first met, swathes upon swathes of white silk complementing the off-white of her wings. Her auburn bun had been thoroughly wrapped in silk ribbons and gold thread, which spiralled down her shoulders.

Argo smiled at that. “You kept it.”

“It was a gift,” came the reply. She did not speak, but they both heard her voice in their head, rich and melodious in Argo’s tongue, or slow and deep in the Firbolg’s. “And I believe you told me, ‘it goes with my hair’.” She caught a thread in her fingers, twisting it slowly.

“It does.”

“What do you need? I am always busy.”

“Fitzroy is missing.”

“We think this being took him.” Argo held out the journal. Althea accepted it, carefully reading descriptions and examining sketches.

After a moment, her face became grave and she turned to them.

“How long has he been gone?”

“A few days.”

“Then we may already be too late.”

Argo clutched the Firbolg’s paw in both hands.

“What do you mean?”

“I recognise this being. They are a thorn in the side of many of my people.” She held out the journal, gesturing to a sketch of Chaos. “What do you know of the Fae?”

Argo turned to the Firbolg. At sea, the closest thing to Fae were his folk. The more temperamental could wreck whole fleets or draw sailors to their damnation, but never without cause.

“They are trouble,” the Firbolg decided, ground shaking ominously beneath him. “They do not know their manners in my forest.”

Althea hummed. “Well, for mortals, they are much more dangerous. A deal made with Fae can damn one for life.”

Argo leaned into the Firbolg’s side, one immense arm closing over him, shutting out the world.

“Is there… anything we can do?” the Firbolg asked. “All is not lost. If Fitzroy is smart, he will not have signed anything yet. Fae tend to woo their victims by demonstrating their power and reach. If he lasts long enough, you may be able to bring him back.”

“And if… he does not?”

“You will have to rescue him. Break the deal. I am not sure how one would do that, but it may be necessary.” She returned the journal to the Firbolg. “Regardless, I know some people who can help you.”

“I have not had personal dealings with Chaos, but I know some who have. Travel to the palace, and ask for Jackle, the king, and his brother. They may be able to help you.”

She stepped forward, gently pushed the Firbolg’s arm aside, and brought a hand up to each of their faces. Her touch, like sun on the sea, pulled Argo from his despair and into his body. The Firbolg’s eyes slid shut and around them, the forest reached for Althea.

“Have courage, my friends.” And she left.

“And now?” Argo asked. The Firbolg looked down at him, squeezed his shoulder.

“We go to the palace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me giving argo anxiety bc i vibe with him (also bc he definitely has self worth/abandonment issues in canon, this is the hill i will die on) . also, sorry for the lengthy tax explanation, but i thought it necessary context   
> for those interested, this is how i picture argo's hair: [ curly hair argo rights ! ](https://biorust-art.tumblr.com/post/626026164846215169/i-see-yalls-straightwavy-river-haired-argo-and)  
> If you really liked it, please consider donating to my [Ko-Fi !](https://ko-fi.com/spacedaemon)


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